


Do-Over

by LondonLioness



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Angst, Gen, I'm Bad At Tagging, Sorry Not Sorry, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-16
Updated: 2019-07-16
Packaged: 2020-06-29 09:30:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,763
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19827316
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LondonLioness/pseuds/LondonLioness
Summary: I sat perfectly still, moving only my eyes as I catalogued the inconsistencies in the room: The rug was the old, shabby one. When John had recreated the smiley face, he had placed it six centimetres too far to the right. Now it was back, and the paint along the lower right rim was smeared just...so.John's laptop was actually his previous laptop. I absorbed all this, then, with shaking fingers, unlocked the phone screen and read the date:23 April, 2010.Five years ago.





	Do-Over

**Author's Note:**

> ICYMI: Yeah, I'm doing major angst again. Contents ahead not safe for the faint of heart. Grab Kleenex, take a deep breath, and away we go...

I woke to early morning sunlight filtering through the drapes. Apparently, I had fallen asleep on the sofa. From the angle of the light, it was barely past dawn; I could go to my proper bed and try for a couple more hours. Before I could so much as stretch the kinks from my limbs, however, my attention was arrested by the wall across from me. 

Something about it was wrong. 

I blinked the remaining sleep-fog away as I sat up to ponder this minor mystery. It looked like the same old wallpaper... 

Umm, yes. The same _old_ wallpaper. 

When John and I renovated the flat, we had found the same pattern easily enough but it was no longer available in the same colour. The new paper was closer to a hunter green than an olive. 

So how was olive wallpaper greeting me this morning? 

I grabbed my phone, meaning to use the flashlight function to examine the wallpaper more thoroughly, and nearly dropped it. It was filling my hand wrong. A cursory glance confirmed that this was the phone I had had three upgrades ago. 

Curiouser and curiouser, as the saying goes. I sat perfectly still, moving only my eyes as I catalogued all the inconsistencies in the room. The rug was the old, shabby one. When John had recreated the smiley face, he had placed it six centimetres too far to the right. Now it was back, and the paint along the lower right rim was smeared just... _so._ John's laptop was actually his previous laptop. I absorbed all this, then, with shaking fingers, unlocked the phone screen and read the date: 

23 April, 2010 

Five years ago. 

Impossible. Very well; eliminate the impossible. What remained? An elaborate hoax? Mycroft's payback for the bleeding portraits and the clown? Must be; he would be the only one able to alter the phone signal. Pranks were hardly his style, but perhaps Greg had talked him into it. If so, the joke was on them: I had iron-clad proof it was not 2010. I rucked up my t-shirt, and my mind whited out for a moment, so great was the shock. 

The scar from the gunshot wound was gone. 

That wasn't all. Frantically, I felt along my shoulders and upper back. My skin was porcelain; not a scar remained. 

I heard footsteps descending the stairs. John, of course, but John from back then with his hair cut short and the stress lines that had so cruelly aged him completely erased. "You're up early," he mumbled, then did a small double-take and peered more closely. "You all right? You look like you've seen a ghost." 

"There are no ghosts," I replied reflexively. Although, apparently, there was time travel. No, that hadn't been proved yet. "I need a medical opinion," I ventured as I followed him into the kitchen. "Can scars just disappear?" 

John flipped on the kettle and started some toast as he answered. "Certainly some superficial scars can fade away to nearly nothing, to where you wouldn't see them unless you knew exactly where to look." 

"More extensive than that," I clarified. "Say, the scar from a gunshot wound or a branding iron." 

"Huh. It would require some plastic surgery..." 

"No surgery," I insisted. "Go to sleep with the scar, wake up without." 

"Impossible," John declared. "This for a case? A body's been identified except for missing scars?" 

Close enough. I nodded distractedly while John served up toast, marmalade, and tea. I saw his eyes light up with an idea and forestalled the obvious. 

"It's not twins." 

"Sure?" 

I nodded and took a mouthful of tea, studying him. It had been only five years, but what a difference. He looked _so_ much younger! I was suddenly consumed by the need for a mirror. 

"Need the loo," I mumbled, pushing away from the table. 

"Should I come with you today?" John called after me. 

"No," I answered, staring into the eyes of a younger, desperately confused Sherlock Holmes. I was at the end of my deductive rope, which meant there was only one place left to go. 

  


Breakfast was being served in the Stranger's Room at he Diogenes Club, and I surprised Mycroft just as he was about to tuck into his Eggs Benedict. 

"Brother mine, to what do I owe the pleasure?" 

I had meant to dispassionately list my observations since I woke up this morning, but what popped out of my mouth was, "I'm scared." 

Mycroft's gaze snapped to me, observing, and whatever he saw must have disturbed him greatly, because he laid down his fork. "Explain." 

I sat down across from him, and Mycroft handed me a cigarette, lit it. Neither of us missed how my hands were shaking. 

"I find myself faced with the impossible," I ground out. "It cannot be true." 

"Then it isn't," Mycroft replied with perfect equanimity. 

Iron-clad logic, that. Yet... "Yet, the evidence is overwhelming," I continued. 

My brother pushed aside his eggs and picked up a blueberry scone to toy with instead. "Very well; let us stipulate this unnamed impossibility is true. What follows?" 

What indeed? That was the heart of the matter, wasn't it? If this were true, it presented me with an unparalleled opportunity. I had, right now, in my head, the information necessary to secure Eurus, neutralise Moriarty and dismantle his web. There would be no fake death, no torture. John would never suffer grief at my hands or duplicity at Mary's. So many lives to be saved: The old lady in the Semtex vest; the governor at Sherrinford. 

And yet: what about Rosie? I adored that little girl, but in this new world I would create, she could not exist. How could I choose to wipe her from existence? But could I really follow a script for the next five years? Could I say and do the exact same things in the exact same ways; make the same choices knowing the results? There was the butterfly effect to consider: the smallest deviation could produce a cascade of enormous consequences. Indeed, I had already changed things by coming here this morning instead of whatever I had done that other 23rd April. For example, the car that had waited an extra couple of seconds as I traversed the zebra crossing: were those two seconds the difference between getting to work safely and being involved in a fatal accident? There was no way to know. 

This rationalisation aside, though, the simple fact was: I couldn't. Couldn't hear John scream my name as I took that leap; couldn't paste a smile on my face and help plan a wedding that would send him into the arms of an assassin. The first time, I had been bumbling along, making choices in the heat of the moment; this time, it would be with malice aforethought. And I. just. _couldn't._

Is it possible to grieve a child that will never exist? I did, at that moment. I dropped my head into my hand and pinched back tears. "I'm sorry, Rosie," I whispered. 

"Who's Rosie?" demanded Mycroft. 

"Nobody," I replied, and the word had the force of a nail being driven into a coffin. With an effort, I composed myself and looked up to meet my brother's concerned frown. 

"Where's the list?" he asked. 

Well, that was a fair assumption, given that I was raving about impossibilities and being so emotional. "I'm clean," I assured him. I made a "V" of two fingers on my right hand and gestured toward him. He obediently handed over another cigarette. I lit it and took a long drag before continuing. "There is, however, a distinct possibility that I'm insane. If the next words I say don't mean anything to you, I will cheerfully submit myself for psychiatric treatment." I had his full attention, so I braced myself and dropped the bomb: "I have reason to believe security at Sherrinford is compromised." 

A touch; a palpable touch. Mycroft's eyes widened, and he turned an even pastier white than usual. "Sherrinford," he echoed. 

"Where Eurus is," I agreed. "You want to completely overhaul the security, Mycroft. Remember how "talented" she is. If you don't lock it down now, double-tight, in less than five years, she'll have the place under her thumb and be able to come and go freely. As in, she'll visit me and we'll spend a lovely evening together walking through London. We'll discuss suicidal ideation, and I'll buy her chips." 

"What in the world are you on about?" 

"Doesn't matter," I told him. "I have quite a lot of information for you, and I want you to check it out. If it doesn't check out, then I'm crazy. But if it does -- well. Then we have a chance to do so much good. 

"Start with this: Victor's bones are in a disused well on the east side of the house at Musgrave. We need to get them out of there; make sure he has a proper burial, yeah?" 

"In a well," Mycroft breathed. "Of course: 'drowned Redbeard.'" 

"Just so. Next: James Moriarty. Don't insult me by pretending you don't know the name. The cabbie that perpetrated the serial suicides, Jefferson Hope, said Moriarty was my fan. But it was Eurus who focused Moriarty's attention on me, and you introduced him to Eurus." 

"You've got that the wrong way around," my brother remarked. "Eurus noted his fascination with you first. He's an eel, that one. A person of interest in numerous affairs, but there's never a single scrap of solid evidence we can use against him. He's a shadow. Eurus hinted she might be able to manoeuvre him into the light." 

I stifled a rueful laugh at that, because she had done that, hadn't she? Out loud, I said, "Your person of interest is the spider at the centre of a vast web of criminal enterprises. He runs guns, drugs, and human trafficking operations on an international scale. He also has a nifty sideline he calls 'consulting criminal': fixing things for people with more money than morals. I've got detailed intel on all of it. Let me use your computer; by this afternoon, you'll have everything you need to take him down forever. 

"How can you have this intel?" Mycroft demanded. 

"I can't; it's impossible." I sat back and watched my brother absorb this. Like me, he has no patience for flights of fancy, so when I saw his lips forming a question, I aborted it. I could not allow this opportunity to devolve into a debate on time travel. Instead, I leaned forward, caught his eye, and said with all the sincerity I could muster, "Let me make this report." 

"Very well." He installed me in his office and left me to it. I spent the next ten hours banging out every detail I had learned in the two years I had spent dismantling Moriarty's web. 

I made my way home that night physically drained but almost floating with happiness. The future stretched ahead of us unmarred by the long shadow the East Wind had cast. I had included Culverton-Smith in my report, so he would be locked away, too. Magnussen alone remained, but I knew the truth about Appledore now, so he couldn't blindside me. 

We were free. 

I walked into 221B to see John putting away some groceries. He turned to greet me, and seeing his expression, so open and trusting, brought home the full enormity of it. Every emotion this day had loosed in me came bubbling to the surface and boiling over, so I was literally laughing and crying at the same time. 

John's expression changed to alarm and he rushed over. "Sherlock? Hey, Sherlock, shh, shh." He divested me of my coat and guided me to my chair, coaxing me to sit. Then he pulled his own chair close so he could lay a grounding hand on my forearm while I pulled myself together. 

"Can you talk about it?" he asked. 

"I've been with Mycroft all day, " I explained. "There's a dangerous criminal. The thought was that I would have to go undercover to take him down. It would have been a lengthy mission, possibly up to two years." 

"Wow. I would have missed you." 

"It gets worse," I added. "In order to go undercover, I would have had to fake my death. No one except Mycroft could know the truth, not even you." 

John looked stricken. "In that case, I'm _very_ glad a different plan was chosen. But I still don't quite get the tears? 

The impossibility. _Rosie._ But I had to consider carefully how much of that to tell John, so for the present, I demurred, "Some details are classified. Suffice it to say, I feel as though I literally got my life back today." I grinned at a sudden idea. "We should go to Angelo's." 

"Great." 

"Have to grab a quick shower," I said, and retired to my bedroom. I stripped off my shirt and twisted to look at my back in the mirror: pristine. Out of sheer joy, I fell backwards onto the bed. My gaze fell on my inside elbow and the shiny silver lines that denoted old track marks. _Superficial scars can fade away to nearly nothing._ I'd be staying clean this time around, too. With a happy sigh, I closed my eyes... 

And opened them to early morning sunlight filtering through the curtains. How had I slept through the night? And why was I on the couch? 

Footsteps approaching: Mycroft. "Little brother, you're not ready?" 

"Ready?" 

"For the funeral." 

Funeral? "Who died?" I demanded. An icy spike of dread pierced me. Mycroft was -- _older._ His hairline had visibly receded, and more lines surrounded his eyes. Right now, those eyes were filled with pity. 

"Dr. Watson succumbed to the infection he contracted from the black mould in the well. Don't you remember?" 

And I did, now that he had said it. I remembered the whole time we were renovating the flat, John struggling with a niggling cough that just wouldn't go away. I remembered him getting greyer, and weaker, and sicker; a diagnosis too late and medicine that just didn't work. I remembered standing by his hospital bed, watching his chest fall on the exhale and not rise again. Two girls had walked by in the corridor just then, having a giggly conversation, and I remembered wanting to throttle them, because the light had just gone out of the world, and they had absolutely no business laughing. I remembered it all, but I couldn't make sense out of it. 

"I don't understand," I rasped. "Didn't you act on the intel I gave you in 2010? He never should have been in the well!" 

"2010?..." 

"Yes! Don't act stupid! I went back to 2010. I came to you in the Diogenes Club and told you everything you needed to know to stop Moriarty; to stop Eurus. I fixed this! I fixed it!" 

"Oh, Sherlock." He sank to his knees to be at eye level and swept his thumb along my cheekbone, wiping away tears. "My poor baby brother. Some things can't be fixed." 

  


Which brings us to the present day. It's pleasant today, warm but not humid, a perfect day to sit on the bench and watch bees pollinate the flowers. I duck into my mind palace for a bit. It's mostly shuttered these days, except for the John Wing. John doesn't really care about bees, but he indulges me. 

The nurse comes by to collect me for lunch. It's a chicken and pasta thing with peas, which I like. After lunch is Occupational Therapy. I'm working on a basket with a geometric design. It's going to be nice. 

You'd think I would find this place boring, but I actually don't get bored anymore. They give me food and I eat it; they give me pills and I take them. There's the telly, books and puzzles in the Common Room, and sometimes I'm allowed to play my violin. Mummy visits often; Mycroft when he can. Hudders and Lestrade stop by every now and then, and Molly comes faithfully every Wednesday. 

My therapist is a nice lady with the extremely pedestrian name of Janet Brown. She never tires of telling me how many good things I have in my life: intellectual and musical gifts; family and friends who love me; work that makes a real contribution. I could have such a rich, full life, she says, if only I would engage it. She's right but she's wrong. 

Some things can't be fixed. 

  
-Fin-

**Author's Note:**

> This first: Eggs Benedict...hee hee. Get it?
> 
> OK, now that I'm done being silly: believe it or not, I originally intended for that to have a happy ending, but the angst bunnies kidnaped my plot. This happens with distressing regularity. Should probably talk to a therapist about it, but...nah. However, this idea would not go away, and I will shortly be posting an expanded version of this fic, and that one will have a happy ending, promise!
> 
> On a personal note: the scene where Sherlock remembers watching John die and the girls giggling...that was my personal experience the day my dad died. He died at home after losing his fight with cancer, and just after he breathed his last, these girls walked by outside, giggling. It floored me. They were....LAUGHING. And the sun...it just kept shining. People on TV, babbling about some trivial war. Damn. The most important thing in the world had just happened, and the world didn't care. Anyway...I'm probably oversharing. That was years ago. I'm better now.
> 
> Leave me comments and/or kudos. Love you lots!
> 
> LL


End file.
